Brought work home with me so that I could avoid the rat race commute on Friday. It's 3:53 on Sunday, and I still haven't touched it.
Still don't have a car. Got the insurance $, towed the car to the body shop, and -- they can't find a used hood. So the car sits at the shop until they find the used part. Because insurance won't pay for a new part on a ten year old car, and I sure as hell can't pay for it.
Finally went to the doc for a couple of serious problems I've had for a good six months. Major (and I do mean major) headaches, which might just be due to a blood pressure of 160/100. So, it's high bp meds for moi. And if it makes that motherfucking headache go away, I'll take it -- really I will. And nearly constant major pain in my right leg from hip to knee, so bad even oxycodone doesn't make a dent in it. A scrip for an ultrasound to see if it's another blood clot; a referral for an orthopedic specialist if it ain't. You all know that it must be excruciating if a masochist says it hurts, right?
I feel another part to the runaway series stirring inside me. Probably next weekend, since it's essentially a five-day weekend for me. I think my anonymous reader gave up on me ever getting the last two parts written, it took so long. I'll keep up with it more now (are you still reading?).
And there's a story somewhere deep in my recent sifting through of the rugrats' baby clothes and giving them to each of them, with stories attached. My mind lately has been full of my younger adult years, especially those with the first rugrat when I didn't have much of a clue. It's bubbling, just beneath the surface, wanting to burst forth in bits and pieces. I guess it's lucky that I tend to write in bits and pieces, isn't it.
My 49th is this Thursday. That happens to be a holiday on my campus (Lincoln' bd). I don't have classes on Friday, and Monday is president's day. We'll see how much I can get done in those five days. Or if I'll lay around like a blob because I'm so physically and mentally exhausted. I'll probably get about half the stuff done that I want to get done. I wonder if it's just because I'm putting too much on my own plate and have unrealistic expectations of myself. Or if I'm just a lazy ass.
big tymers, still fly:
same song by devil wears prada:
I love that the same song can be so different.